


First Person

by Cynaera (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Cynaera
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Cynaera, who passed away in 2012.





	First Person

Okay, I’m awake now. I can feel pain, and I know people can’t feel pain when they’re dreaming. Or see colors. This place is so much like Section. It’s creepy and sterile and it smells like disinfectant. Maybe it’s a hospital room. Maybe I’ve been kidnapped by aliens. 

Right – aliens from a terrorist faction. This isn’t fair – I guess nothing’s really fair in life. I wonder where Michael is. I wonder if he’s been taken, too. I’m sure he’s a lot tougher than I am about pain. Jeezus, he’s had more time being subjected to it than I have – his skin _oughtta_ be thicker by now. 

Let’s see – what was I s’posed to do next? Think, Nikita - _think_. Got it. I’m strapped down, but I can slide my hands out from under the arm restraints. Old trick. Michael taught me that. I just have to contort my body. It hurts, though. My arms hurt – what the hell’s been _done_ to me? How long have I been out? God, I hope Michael’s still alive. He has to be. He’s stronger than me, and I’m alive, so that means he is, too. 

There – that’s got it. Oh, god, my arms… are these needle-tracks? Don’t panic, Nik. Don’t freak out. Stay sane. Think. Focus. Deep breath. Let it out. Close your eyes for a second. Focus. 

Okay. Needle-tracks. Now, what are my symptoms? My skin’s not clammy. My head feels perfectly clear. My eyes are focusing. I don’t ache anywhere, and I don’t see any bruises, other than my arms. Some nurse, probably – she couldn’t find the vein, so she did a safari on my arm. What the hell happened to me? Where am I? Where’s Michael? How do I get outta here? Am I being watched? Prioritize, girl. First things first. Never mind what happened to you. Never mind where you are. Never mind where Michael is. It won’t help unless you can get outta here. So – priority one. Escape. 

Easy does it. Move slowly – you still don’t know your condition. Right – I can sit up without pain. My ankles are secured, but the straps are easy to loosen. Free. I’m free. Well, at least from this weird gurney. I’m dressed in white pajamas that look like something from Victoria’s Secret. Cotton, or something. Soft and warm. I have a pair just like them at home. 

Home. Wonder where I am? No, forget that. Focus on escape. There’s a door. Wait – there’s another door, almost identical. I don’t see any surveillance cameras or peepholes anywhere. I can’t feel anything like a hidden mike under the gurney, and it’s the only furniture in this room. So – if my training was anything to write home about, I’m not being observed, and I have two choices for escape. 

I’m barefoot. That won’t be good if I have to run across sharp rocks. Well, a little blood is better than a brain-drain or an extended torture-session. Although it looks like I’ve already been through one or the other, or maybe both. All right. I’ll take what’s behind Door Number One. The handle moves easily. Too easily. Could be a trap. I just won’t open the door. I can tell it’s not locked. Let’s see what’s behind Door Number Two. The advantage to being barefoot is no clomping sounds. Silence, stealth like a jungle cat. Like Michael. I miss him, and I know I shouldn’t. 

Next door. I’m next door. The latch doesn’t move. Locked. No keyhole. Can’t be picked, even if I did have something to use as a lockpick. Monty, I’ll take what’s behind Door Number One. Okay, Nik. Deep breath. Let it out. Focus. Be Michael. Be ready for anything. 

~ ~ ~ 

Weird. No people, no security. A white hallway, empty. No sound. This place is deserted. _Why_ is it deserted? And how long have I been strapped to that stupid gurney with bruises all over my arms? How much blood am I missing? Forget it, Nikita. Don’t think about it. Just get the hell outta here. Be quiet. 

What if Michael’s here somewhere? I can’t just leave him. But I can’t go door to door like a goddamned Jehovah’s Witness, either. They’ve got more guts than I do. They _choose_ to knock on strange doors and take their risks. I do it because I’m forced to in order to stay alive. Then again, maybe Jehovah’s Witnesses take their risks for the same reasons, but for a different higher power. 

Footsteps, and they’re not mine. That closet looks safe enough – I can duck into it until whoever’s coming goes away. Jeez, it’s blinding-dark in here compared to that white out there. I hope I’m not breathing too loudly. I hope no one can hear my heart pounding. It happens everytime I’m under any kind of stress. I’m getting better about not showing my emotions on my face, but my damned body still betrays me in all kinds of unexpected ways. The last time I was facing certain death, my stomach growled! Jeezus, how undignified. Like tilting your chin up in defiance, only to fart with the next breath. We are not in control. None of us. Not even Michael, although he’s probably the most “in-control” person I’ve ever known. 

~ ~ ~ 

The footsteps have gone. I listened to them as they passed. They were solid, certain, confident. Not stealthy, not sneaky. Not silent, like Michael’s steps. It wasn’t him, I know it. And I can escape. 

But I can’t. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know if Michael was with me or not. I don’t know if he’s here, dying maybe, or being tortured. I don’t know _anything_. Well, okay – I know I’m alive. And I can walk, and run if I have to, even over sharp rocks. Should I leave? If Michael’s here, should I leave anyway? Logic tells me that I can’t do him any good if I stay. At least if I’m free, I can send help. I’m not a martyr. I don’t want to nail myself to a tree just because Michael _might_ be here, wherever “here” is. 

Decision made, Nikita. Escape. I peeked out from the closet, saw no one, and now I’m on my way to – where? Anywhere but here. Down this long, empty hallway with doors on either side. Let’s see – left or right? To the left is what looks like a corridor full of danger. The right? A glass double-door. Nothing else. God. Daylight. Freedom. This was too easy. I’m either up against some mental midgets here, or they’re light-years ahead of my jail-break and I’m about to get shot down dead. Well, either way, I’ll be free… 

~ ~ ~ 

My feet hurt. I don’t know how many times I’ve fallen down, but I’m looking at myself, and I’m bleeding from a lot of different places, mostly my feet. Sharp rocks. I should’ve known better than to suppose something so vivid. I wonder if my thoughts are making my surroundings real. I wonder if I’m just delirious. My arms are bleeding, too – the needle-holes have opened up like something out of a Stephen King novel, and I must look like Hellraiser. Needle-face, or whatever his name is. Pinhead. Why is that so funny? I can’t even stop laughing, and I _know_ this is serious shit I’m in. Maybe whoever had me tied down injected me with a delayed-reaction drug. It’s activated by sunlight. If that’s the case, I just wrote my own ticket to the great beyond. 

No. Nikita, stop it. Focus. Sit down, don’t fall down. Assess your injuries. Michael would do that. Michael. Jeezus, Michael. If I could just see your face, damaged or otherwise, I’d be all right. I know I would. I could walk through fire – I could fly to the moon by flapping my arms if I knew you were all right. 

No time for that. Okay. Blood. Not a lot, but in a lot of places, most of which I can account for. The feet from the sharp rocks. The arms from the needles. But, where the hell did the hole in my ribcage come from? I didn’t even feel it until I started running like a white-assed deer from that spooky compound in the middle of nowhere. I guess I must’ve gotten shot somewhere along the line. Jeez. I better take better care of myself. 

Now – I’m not losing enough blood to be terminal, but that stupid hole in my side has to be dealt with. I can tear my pajama top, I guess. No, better to rip one of the cuffs from the pajama bottoms. I don’t want to be too exposed to the sun. Dehydration, and all that. Just to be safe, I’ll rip pieces from both cuffs. I might need the extra saturation material on the run. Another thing Michael taught me. God, I might just survive this afterall because of him, and wouldn’t that be the essence of serendipity, or something? 

A highway. Out here in the middle of Bumf*ck Egypt or wherever I am. A flippin’ highway. I wonder what kind of traffic bombs through here? Low-flying jets? Rickety old rattle-traps with farmers driving? I guess I’ll find out… Funny – this is Nikita’s mental journal. Keep a running commentary in your mind, and you can survive anything. 

~ ~ ~ 

I can’t believe I’m back at Section, after all I went through in the Outer Limits. Michael was never there. He was here the whole time, monitoring me. Thank god he couldn’t hear my thoughts – shit, I hope I didn’t say anything out loud. It was a test. A goddamn test. The bullet hole in my side, the needle-marks, everything. A test. All except the ripped-up soles of my feet. _That_ was real. I didn’t need stitches, but I’m bedridden for the next four days until the wounds heal. 

Michael hasn’t visited. He won’t. He’s under strict orders to leave me alone. It doesn't matter, though. He was in my mind the whole time. He was the first person I thought of with any concern, aside from my initial inventory of my own condition. He’ll always be the first person, I think…


End file.
